


Chains of Gold from Star to Star

by dietplainlite



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VIII The Last Jedi, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, First Time, Force Bond (Star Wars), Loss of Virginity, Reylo - Freeform, Vaginal Sex, seriously these two virgins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 22:11:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13086420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/pseuds/dietplainlite
Summary: He doesn't have to do this. Not yet. He presses a series of buttons, redirecting the lift.*contains spoilers for The Last Jedi*





	Chains of Gold from Star to Star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emcee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emcee/gifts).



She has the smell of the ocean on her, as strong as the stench of sweat and fear that hung around her the first time they stood so close. He wondered then, fleetingly, if she would taste of salt. He wonders again.

_Turning_

_Standing together._

_The shape of it._

_You don’t have to do this._

He doesn’t have to do this. At least not yet.  She inhales as he moves closer, exhales as he moves past her, breathes in again as he presses a series of buttons, redirecting the lift. He steps back in place. She’s closer, now, fractionally. There’s a scar on her right cheek and a spray of freckles across her nose.

“Why do you smell like wood smoke?” she asks.

Her eyelashes flutter down and back up. When the lift stops, she steps away, and when the door opens, they’re on opposite sides, staring straight ahead.

It doesn’t matter; it’s a private hallway.

Kylo can’t recall if another human has ever entered his quarters. Service droids come and go with near-invisible efficiency, but his may be the only organic voice that’s ever echoed here.

He guides her through the door, and she eyes him with the same expression she wore when she arrived in the hangar, then takes in the room. It must be exactly what she expects: cold and dark, no human touches, stark. Even the places meant for repose are built with harsh lines, too small for his frame. 

“Take them off,” he says.

“What?” she asks, taking a step back, toward the door.  

“The restraints. They’re a formality.”

“Oh.” She looks down at them. “How?”

He sighs, waves his hand, and the restraints open and clatter to the floor.

Two bright spots appear on her cheeks. “I could have done it if you’d shown me!”

“I thought you didn’t need me to teach you.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

He glances at the bed before he can stop himself. She follows his gaze.

“You’re joking.”

“That’s not—I just wanted some time.”

“Is he not expecting us?”

“He is, but we have some time.”

She looks at him for a moment, steadily, then walks around the room, examining the few things that are out at his workstation. His chronometer and data pad, a few old holocrons. In the desk drawer, there are a few old scrolls she may want to look at.

_No. She doesn’t want to see your scrolls. Stupid._

She goes to his bed and runs her hand down the mattress as she makes her way back toward him.  Something flutters between them, around them, enveloping them, and all the ambient noise is sucked from the room, leaving only their breath and beating hearts. He swears he can hear the blood rushing through her veins.

If he could, he would take her somewhere quiet, and warm, with a bed the size of a freighter and the softest sheets, something straight out those holo shows his nanny used to watch when she thought he was napping.

There’s no time for that. There’s only this cold, soulless room. But she is bright, and warm, and she’s reaching up to do the thing he’s dreamed about, touching his face, her eyes brimming as she touches his scar.

“Does it hurt?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not, though.”

She works her hand into his hair, closing her eyes as she does, and he leans in, kissing her forehead. She gasps at the contact and he pulls away, looking into her eyes.

“Was that okay?”

She nods and looks at his lips, tilting her head to consider, before going up on her toes to press her lips against his.

He freezes, hands clenched at his sides, as she presses her hands against his chest for balance. When he doesn’t move, she ends the kiss and steps back.

“I’m sorry. I thought--”

“Don’t be.”

She steps toward him again and he loops an arm around her waist. He can’t remember the last time he held someone this close outside of a fight, and he marvels at how small and strong she is, how she buzzes with pent up energy.

They try again, tilting their heads, and when she opens her mouth, he slides his tongue between her lips. From there, he loses track of where his mouth ends and hers begins. Tentatively, he sucks on her bottom lip, and when she responds with a little gasp, he takes it between his teeth.  Her hands are on his chest again, and they slide down to his waist, where she starts working on the latch of his belt. It drops to the floor and she pulls away to unwrap her own belt. He finds himself mesmerized by the creak of the leather, the rasp of her calloused fingers against the gauzy cloth of her wrappings as she discards them.

_Stars, why is she wearing so much?_

 

* * *

 

 

_Why is he so covered all the time?_

The hooks on Kylo’s tunic are numerous and small, and Rey is tempted to rip the damned thing apart. Surely, he has a whole wardrobe full of them. She finally gets to a point where she can open it enough to touch his chest. It’s shameful how much she’s wanted to, how much she thought about it since that night, even though their conversation had been so fraught. Even though she’s not supposed to want this, or him. He’s solid beneath her hands, from his collarbones down to his navel. Her hands ghost over the scars but she doesn’t give herself time to consider them, going straight for the fly of his pants, which opens much more easily than his tunic. There’s a bit of bashful pride in his eyes as he reaches down and takes out his cock.

She’s seen naked men before, but never like this. Their parts always looked silly and impractical, dangling around like that. But this looks like a weapon, and for some reason, looking at it makes her mouth water. She reaches out to touch it and when her fingers make contact, he gasps. The skin is so soft, softer than anything she’s ever touched. So soft she’s afraid her rough hands may hurt him.

As she wraps her hand around it and slides it up, and then down, the way the skin moves over the muscle is fascinating, but not as fascinating as the reaction it’s eliciting from him. Mouth slack, eyes half closed, he takes in shuddering breaths, images tumbling through his mind of what he wants to do to her. Images that make her blush at the same time they make the heat between her legs flare.

He wants her on the bed, above him, both naked, skin slick and heated, hair damp and tangled. He wants her bent over the bed, slamming into her from behind. He wants to be on top, her legs slung over his shoulders or wrapped around his waist.

“I’m sorry that we don’t have time for all of that,” he whispers.

“I don’t care.” She pauses mid-stroke. “What _do_ we have time for?”

In answer, he kisses her again, guiding her toward the bed. He sits and pulls her onto his lap, his arms firm against her back, and his cock pressing into her, rubbing exactly where she needs it to be, only the rough fabric of her breeches separating them. He takes his right glove off with his teeth, then pushes her tunic off her shoulders and pulls the collar of her shirt aside, exposing her left breast. He stares at her nipple, then looks up at her.

“I—”

“Please,” she says. She doesn’t even know why she wants him to put his mouth on her, just that if he doesn’t in the next two seconds, she’s going to lose her mind.

He doesn’t kiss her nipple first, but the area right below it. It makes her curl her toes inside her boots, and her inner thighs throb, but it’s not what she wants.

“You said we didn’t have any time,” she urges, and before she can take another breath, he takes her nipple in his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue around it, kneading the flesh with his hand. She rocks against him, digging her hands in his hair, and the friction of his hardness against her center is exquisite. She wants to keep doing it, but he pushes her back, so she ends up standing between his legs.

“Take them off,” he says.

She smiles. “What?”

He flexes his hand and she feels a sharp tug on the waistband of her breeches.

“Oh,” she says, and shimmies them down her hips, letting them drop to the floor. He swallows hard, looking down at the soft hair between her legs. Again, she gets a glimpse of what he would do to her if they had more time, and it is shocking.

“Have you ever done that before?” she asks. In his head, she’s sprawled on the bed and he’s kneeling in front of her, licking and sucking at the place between her legs.

“I’ve never done any of this before.”

“Then how do you know…”

“Holos. Certain books. Older kids talking.”

All Rey can remember of people talking about coupling were crude jokes and innuendos she didn’t understand.

His hands are on her hips, and he moves them to cup her ass and urge her closer to him. She takes his face in her hands and kisses him again, hard, and in one quick move, he stands, lifting her off her feet, twisting, and tossing her onto the bed. Working quickly, he takes off her boots and yanks her breeches off, then climbs onto the bed, settling between her legs.  His urgency is real now, and not just because of how much he wants her. He must have sensed something, an impatience from his Master. She braces as he positions himself at her entrance. Just the sensation of the tip of him pressing against her is overwhelming, combined with the pressure of his thumb on that one particular spot. The good spot, she’d called it, when she had first discovered it, years before.

“Are you sure?” he says, low in her ear.

“Yes.”

He takes a deep breath and pushes into her. It can’t be more than an inch or two, but it _hurts_ , somewhere between stinging and aching, and it takes her breath away. Maybe it would hurt less if they had more time, to do the things he imagined, the things she wanted without knowing what they were.  Or maybe he’s just too big. There’s no way this is normal, that he can really fit inside her.  He moves back, and thrusts again, going deeper, and this time, under the sting, there’s something else, almost like pleasure. On the third stroke, he goes deeper still, and pauses, hovering over her, his hair brushing against her face.  She pushes it back, cupping his cheek and running her thumb along his scar.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“I know.”

He begins to move again, slowly, his soft sighs in her ear the most beautiful thing she’s ever heard, and after a few thrusts, she’s able to move with him, meeting his hips as he plunges into her, the movements easier as she becomes slicker with need. Though it takes them awhile to get in sync, a familiar feeling starts building from the good spot, like an itch she can’t scratch. She chases it, grinding her hips harder against his. She closes her eyes, but he grabs her face in one hand. 

“Look at me,” he pants.  “Look at me.”

His eyes are unfathomable. Dark and deep, pulling at her like the mirrored cave, and she would gladly throw herself in again if they would show her what she’s searching for. She catches flashes of how he wishes this could be; naked, leisurely touching, slow kissing, and the knowledge they can do it again and again if they choose. As his pace increases, the flashes she sees of his mind are not what could have been, but how it is now, in this moment. She sees herself through his eyes, and she is luminous. This is what they have.

And then she is falling, tumbling, pleasure exploding from where they’re connected physically, radiating through whatever this spiritual connection is, and doubling back into her body. All the time’s she’s clumsily fumbled herself to release in the past are a pale shadow to this. And like the mirror cave, she feels his pleasure, and feels him feeling hers, on and on into infinity.

 

* * *

 

There is nothing but her in that moment, her heat surrounding him, her soul enveloping his, her heartbeat leading his.

He would follow it over a cliff it that’s where it led.

He follows her as she falls apart, his own climax reverberating against hers, echoing in every corner of his soul.

Slowly, with each labored breath, the room comes into sharper focus, the world expanding outside the bubble of their bond. The first sound he is aware of is the beeping of his commlink.

“We should go,” he says.

Her head is turned away from his, and when he caresses her cheek, she turns to meet his gaze. “Don’t do this,” she whispers, eyes glossy.

He gets up, sliding out of her, studiously ignoring the mess on her thighs, and goes to the fresher to get a wash cloth. When he comes out, she’s sitting on the bed with her pants in her lap. He hands her the cloth and goes to the mirror, combing his hair with his back to her as she gets dressed. When she’s finished, he lets her use his comb and brush. Neither of them say a word, the only sound in the room the crackle of the brush running through her hair.

Except for flushed cheeks and swollen lips, she looks much the same as she did when she arrived, like a doll in a box. He goes to her, wrapping his arms around her. She holds him tightly, her hands in fists against his back.

“We can leave now,” she says. “We don’t have to go to him.”

“Trust me,” he says. 

 

* * *

 

 How long ago would she have laughed in this man’s face for asking her to trust him? Three days? Three minutes? Three minutes ago, she’d been lost underneath him. Three days ago, she’d still wanted to shoot him. But what else can she do?

She holds out her arms, wrists together.

He picks up the restraints and advances.

“Remember what I saw,” she says.

“I will.  You should do the same.”

As the cuffs click in place, she looks up at him, standing so close she can smell herself on his clothing, underneath that inexplicable smell of wood smoke. Again, she sees him, like in her vision, standing in the light, turning from the darkness, but it fades as they turn toward the door.

She looks over her shoulder as they leave the room, at the rumpled bed. An event that could shatter galaxies took place there, and within moments, a droid will come in and remove all evidence that it ever happened.

Soon, there may be no evidence that she ever happened. But as he leads her back to the lift, the hand on the small of her back is different, somehow. She focuses on that, on the energy dancing between them where they touch. On that one spark of light.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Illuminations" by Arthur Rimbaud
> 
> So this is my first The Last Jedi piece. Here's to a beautiful two years of fic. Find me on tumblr at kylo-wouldnt-like-those-chips


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